


Over and Over, I Will Follow You

by IndigoDream



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, First Kiss, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Minor Violence, Somewhat, Temporary Character Death, True love™, again canon does NOT exist in this household pls understand that, dealing with death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:47:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23406262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndigoDream/pseuds/IndigoDream
Summary: The first time Geralt meets Jaskier, the inn is small, the bard sings a badly written song, and he dislikes him the second he sits across from him. Still, when Jaskier asks to stick around, Geralt grunts a yes. It’s not much, as far as able traveling companion go, but Jaskier provides company on the road. They don’t always travel together, and they spend quite some time apart, but whenever they find each other again, Jaskier is always ecstatic.--Jaskier dies. And then Jaskier is back, but it isn't Jaskier. And then this one dies again. The gods are playing tricks with Geralt of Rivia, but he is too lost in his grief to notice properly.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 48
Kudos: 429





	Over and Over, I Will Follow You

**Author's Note:**

> Woooohooo 
> 
> So middle of the night on mondays/tuesdays are my THING to be posting Geraskier fanfic uh. This whole quarantine thing is making me write a lot uh. Topic to examine later. 
> 
> This is an idea I had in my head for a few days! While I'm working away at trying to rewrite Jolene (yes, the song by Dolly Parton) into an appropriate song for Jaskier to sing (... yeah idk what to tell you right there), I thought "hey, why not hurt myself even more and write Geraskier angst where Jaskier DIES??" But I can't write angst so it has a happy ending. Also! Found family trope, yayy.
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy this! It was fun to write! Come see me on tumblr (@saltytransidiot) where I can be found... talking about Geraskier mostly? Yeah, lately that's about it lmao. 
> 
> Have fun reading :D

The first time Geralt meets Jaskier, the inn is small, the bard sings a badly written song, and he dislikes him the second he sits across from him. Still, when Jaskier asks to stick around, Geralt grunts a yes. It’s not much, as far as able traveling companion go, but Jaskier provides company on the road. They don’t always travel together, and they spend quite some time apart, but whenever they find each other again, Jaskier is always ecstatic. 

They go through the whole debacle of the Law of Surprise together, and the bard abandons his night companion that night. Instead, he stays with Geralt. And for once, Geralt is happy to listen to Jaskier’s inane stories. They provide a much needed distraction. 

They grow closer, and they grow apart, and Jaskier grows older, slowly but surely. Life is still beating madly in him, and he still runs after Geralt. He still gives Roach treats when he thinks Geralt isn’t watching. They are happy together, strangely, and Geralt doesn’t hesitate anymore to call him his friend. 

Then there is the whole mess with Yennefer and the dragon, and Geralt lashes out at Jaskier. When Jaskier leaves, Geralt feels relief for a quarter of a second, and then he realizes his mistake. It’s too late when he tries to catch up with his bard though. Too late, too slow. 

The first time he loses Jaskier, he hasn’t even managed to apologize for what he did. He didn’t have the time. 

He buries the body of his dearest friend in a meadow, where wild flowers grow, and he doesn’t let anyone come close to him again for years. He cries as he leaves the meadow, and Roach’s muzzle pushes at his shoulder. 

—

The second time he meets Jaskier, Geralt is drunk at a tavern. He is tired, the hunt has been rough, and he was underpaid — _again_. Soon, it will be ten years since he lost Jaskier. Ten years since he let himself be closed off to the world. He hasn’t met Ciri just yet. 

A voice catches his attention. Even in the hazy state that he is in, he would recognize that lilt, that laughter anywhere. He looks around madly, trying to find him, and when he does, his heart nearly breaks in half all over again. Not because it isn’t Jaskier, but because it is, but it can’t be. Because Jaskier’s dead. Jaskier is dead because of Geralt, and this… this man is imitating him, clearly, and Geralt won’t have any of that. 

He advances to the table where the man, barely any older than Jaskier had been when they had first met, is seated. He is with a woman, her red hair stark against her white cheeks, and she is laughing at whatever the man is saying. 

“You,” Geralt barks at the man, and blue eyes, almost the right shade but just a touch too dark, and the scent is all wrong too, and that isn’t Jaskier, and yet it is, and he is so convinced of that that he is stumbling, holding onto the table. 

Gods, he is too drunk for this. Is he hallucinating? Is it Jaskier’s ghost, coming to haunt him for all the pain he has caused him over the years? Geralt deserves it, if it is so. 

“Witcher,” the man says, and his voice is Jaskier but it’s not and Geralt wants to cry out, to yell and shake the man. “What can I do for you?” 

“What’s your name?” Geralt doesn’t ask, he growls it, an order leaving his throat dry and parched for more.

“Dandelion,” the man answers, unfazed by Geralt’s roughness. “Might you be the White Wolf himself, the famous witcher from all those songs?” 

Jask— _Dandelion_ sounds delighted. He sounds excited, and he is sipping the same sweet wine Jaskier preferred, and Geralt wants to rip him apart. 

“It’s the Butcher of Blaviken,” his companion whispers, and she must not know that witchers have overdeveloped senses. “Do you know him?” 

“No,” Geralt grunts and takes the wine, drinking it one go. “That _man_ doesn’t know me.” 

The lady looks appealed at Geralt’s manner, but Jaskier, no, Dandelion, stands up and smiles. Fuck, even his smile looks like Jaskier’s. 

“Come on now, Geralt,” he says amiably. “You should not be so rude when I have company. But I can see you need a friendly hand.” He turns to his companion with such a sweet and pitiful expression Geralt wants to punch him. “Dear, I think I have to cut our evening short. It was truly a pleasure knowing you, and I’m sure our paths will cross again.” 

Geralt doesn’t know why he lets himself be steered away by the man. Perhaps it’s the resemblance with Jaskier, the unlikely similar voice, the way he moves… Geralt knows the man is wrong, that he isn’t Jaskier, but still, his drunken mind clings onto the resemblance as he lets himself be maneuvered to his bedroom. 

“Get some rest, witcher,” is the only thing the Jaskier-lookalike says before closing the door. 

The next morning, Geralt finds him giving Roach a treat, chattering to the mare as if to an old friend. He gives her the same exact treat Jaskier did, and the mare, intelligent like she always is, looks almost happy. As if she has found again an old friend as well. It’s the only reason he allows Dandelion to come along. 

He doesn’t last long, this one. Barely three years, before a Drowner gets him. Geralt buries him under a tree, and he does not cry. Wildflowers are blooming around the tree when he leaves.

— 

The next one is named Julian. Geralt hears him singing, and he knows it’s Jaskier. No one had ever had the same flow, the same lightness in their voice, as Jaskier had. Except Julian. 

Jaskier has been dead for fifteen years, and Dandelion for two. Ciri studies with Yennefer. Geralt is alone with Roach again, hunting monsters and trying to forget the pain in his heart that follows him everywhere. 

Julian lasts longer. He sings, but doesn’t play the lute like Jaskier had. He just sings, and tells stories so elaborate that they wrap around Geralt’s mind. He is funny too, and Roach likes him, and Geralt does too.

It’s human’s hands around his neck, seven years after they first met, to the day, that end him. He had been caught by a father while he was enjoying the pleasure of a young man’s eagerness. Geralt doesn’t care for his reputation anymore. He hasn’t, not since Jaskier died. He almost takes pleasure in killing the man who murdered Julian. Almost. 

Julian’s grave is by the river, and wildflowers grow around it without Geralt noticing. He tries not to visit the graves of all the Jaskiers. 

— 

“You haven’t had anyone accompany you on your journey in a while,” Yennefer comments as they lay in bed together. 

She likes to do that, talk to him after they’ve fucked, like they are together. They both know he’ll be gone in the morning, and she won’t even pretend to miss him. He guesses he likes it too. She’s the only one who really speaks to him anymore. Ciri’s too often gone on hunts now, and she wasn’t here today. Geralt had come to see her, not Yennefer, but destiny likes to fuck him over. 

“Why is that?” She continues as he doesn’t answer. “When we met, you always had that bard trailing your every move, like a puppy after its master. What happened to him?” 

Geralt gets up. He’ll leave that evening then. He doesn’t mind sleeping in the woods again. 

“Geralt,” Yennefer says, and he can’t walk away right now. She’s not enjoying this, not when she sees the way his shoulders are tense when he had been so relaxed before. “What happened to him?” 

“He died.” His voice is too rough, too harsh, and he wants to hit himself repeatedly. He is weak now, exhausted from five decades of being followed by Jaskier’s ghost. “And then, he died again. And again.”

There has been three other Jaskiers, after Julian, but Geralt has stopped remembering their names. He barely remembers their faces, but he remembers their graves. He’s been leaving a trail of dead Jaskier all over the Continent. 

“What do you mean,” she gets up, wraps herself on his back and caresses his cheek, almost tenderly, but they don’t really do tender. “How could he die, again?” 

Geralt turns to her, and he feels the hot tears that he hates so much rolling down his cheeks. She looks completely at lost with what to do. She drags him back to the bed, and he lets her. 

When he tells her about the Jaskiers, when he tells her about the deaths, he has stopped the tears, but they are still in his voice, breaking it and hammering at his throat as he explains everything. She caresses his hair, that tenderness from her touch the only thing grounding him to reality. 

“I’m sorry,” she says gently. She means it, and when she kisses him, it’s bittersweet and it feels oddly like a goodbye. “I’m sorry you’ve been losing the one you love, over and over again. I’m sorry you’ve had to bury him so many times.” 

Geralt’s heart stutters on her words. The one he loves. He had valued Jaskier, had appreciated his company and endured him more than anyone else’s… Even Yennefer, at time, despite his affection for her. He had always relied on Jaskier’s presence, and, despite the knowledge that the man was mortal and thus had a shorter lifespan, he had always believe Jaskier would always be there for him. In a way, even after his death, he had been, but… none of them had really been _Jaskier_. And each failure to find Jaskier had broken his heart all over again, until he was left raw and aching, defenceless in front of Yennefer, who had always been able to read through him. 

“I left him to die,” Geralt says roughly. “It’s my fault he died in the first place, my fault his life was cut so short, and now he is haunting me, dying all over and over again…” 

“He isn’t haunting you,” Yennefer’s hand tangles in his hair, pulling slightly, and he appreciates the sting. “You’ve been doing that to yourself for so many years, Geralt. Have you been to his grave lately?” 

He hasn’t. He had tried to visit it twice since Jaskier’s death, but each time he got near the meadow, he couldn’t walk further. He had spent nights camping out there, trying to muster the courage to go and apologize. He had never gotten around to it. 

“We will go in the morning. Now, rest, Geralt.” 

Yennefer doesn’t give him much of a choice. He doesn’t really want to take her to this place, to this sacred space where he laid down the body of the only person he had truly loved, well before he met Ciri, and had shed tears for the first time in many years. 

When she opens the portal in the morning, he goes with her. Her company gives him strength, oddly. He walks through the meadow until he finds the rough pile of stones, unchanged by time, and then he crumbles. It’s like reliving Jaskier’s death all over again, but also all the other Jaskiers. They had all been him, without being him, and they had all known things about Geralt they couldn’t have known without being Jaskier. The weight of those last fifty years settle on his shoulder, and he shouts, tears mixing with his voice. 

Yennefer simply stands next to him, not saying anything. When his throat becomes too raw for anything more than the barest whisper, she caresses his hair again. He closes his eyes, leans into the touch of the witch. With Ciri, he is all he has still, and he isn’t sure he can continue on. He doesn’t want to meet another Jaskier, doesn’t want to see that new Jaskier die, but if it is his fate… Then so be it. He will atone for his sins this way. He will make a world in which Jaskier can live, happy and free from Geralt. 

“Geralt?” 

Yennefer stills, and so does Geralt, but he doesn’t understand why she does. He recognizes the voice, but he has heard it so many times that it is probably just another hallucination. 

When he opens his eyes though, Jaskier is standing over on the other side of the grave, blue and purple wildflowers crowning his hair, and he looks just like the last time Geralt had seen him, but there is something new about him. A scent that screams magic, danger, and so much more. 

“Am I really back?” Jaskier touches his chest, and his eyes lighten up as his hand pokes the material. “I am!” 

“Yennefer,” Geralt growls, “what dark magic have you brought on this place?” 

It’s so easy to accuse the witch at his side, to ignore that there is Jaskier, real and alive Jaskier. Because Jaskier can’t be alive. Jaskier is dead, all because of Geralt. 

“I did nothing,” she defends herself. “I didn’t use my magic. I couldn’t have. This place… wouldn’t let me touch it.” 

“Are you not happy to see me again?” Jaskier’s voice is worried, and Geralt looks at him, and he sees the right shade of blue in those eyes. Everything is just right, and that’s what hurts the most. Soon, that Jaskier will be taken from him again, and Geralt will only have himself to blame. 

“Who are you?” He can only asks this roughly, clutching the stones of the grave. “What are you?” 

“I’m Jaskier! You know me Geralt, come on, don’t play this game with me. Lovely to see you again Yennefer,” he says pleasantly and nods at the witch. “You really haven’t changed a bit.” 

“Neither have you,” she answers, stunned. “You don’t look half bad for a fifty years old corpse.” 

“Corpse? Oh, I see, that’s where I need to—“ 

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence. Geralt is on him, golden eyes glowing and teeth showing as he holds his silver sword to Jaskier’s, no, the creature that has taken Jaskier’s form’s, neck. 

“What are you?” He growls again, and presses the blade into the skin. 

There is no blood, nothing, and Jaskier looks at him with sadness in his eyes. “I’m just Jaskier, Geralt. You know me,” he repeats those words, almost like a prayer, and his hand reaches to caress Geralt’s cheek. “You know me, and I know you, Geralt of Rivia. My Witcher.” 

Geralt drops his sword then, and he stumbles backwards. Yennefer comes to stand by him, and he relies on her. 

“You can’t be real,” he stammers, and tries to walk backwards more, but his feet are rooted to the ground. 

“Yeah… About that…” Jaskier looks a bit embarrassed, twists his hands a bit. “You know how we didn’t always travel together, and you kept saying I always ended in the worst troubles? You weren’t totally wrong.” 

Geralt scoffs. Of course he hadn’t been wrong. Jaskier was a nest of problems waiting to explode. 

“Turns out that when I died, I kind of.. became a pawn? For the um, the gods? To punish you. Well, some of the gods. Some others wanted to reward you. That’s why… That’s why you had all those me. I mean, they weren’t me,” he almost chuckles, “because really, who can equal this perfection? Nobody, lets all agree on that. But I…They sent pieces of me, after you, again and again, until you atoned… And I guess they decided you had done enough? So they sent me back? I think? I’m pretty sure I can’t be human totally anymore, but I know they won’t take me back. They can’t, I think, not unless I die, and uh. I would rather avoid that happening again, if you want my humble opinion.” 

Great can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t do anything. If this is true, if it isn’t just a wild part of his imagination… Then he angered the gods, and appeased them again, all without knowing. He turns to Yennefer, who is looking at Jaskier with wide eyes, looking astonished as well. 

“Strike me,” he orders roughly. 

“What? Have you lost your mind—“ 

“I said strike me!” 

He doesn’t have to yell twice. Yennefer’s hand collides with his cheek with a strength he wasn’t expecting. Still, the pain is minimal, but it’s there, and he couldn’t have dreamed it. 

“What the fuck,” Jaskier breathes out, looking at them both worriedly. “Have you two gotten even weirder while I was gone? Because I don’t remember Geralt ever asking to be hit, and especially not by the love of his life.” 

“She’s not the love of my life,” Geralt grunts.

“Oh right, that must be the little Ciri, isn’t it?” Jaskier smiles widely, as if all that is happening is completely normal and there isn’t a pinch of worry to be had, “I can’t wait to meet her! I mean, if you two don’t mind.” 

“Ciri… isn’t the love of his life either,” Yennefer says, still baffled, but coming back to herself faster than Geralt is. “You must know why they chose you as their pawn, right?” 

_They_. No one besides Jaskier will want to refer to them as the _gods_. Geralt and Yennefer aren’t exactly fervent believer, but right now they are more than willing to pray at every single altar. 

“Why, yes, I died at a very convenient moment! I still expect an apology,” he tells Geralt, but the softness in his eyes says otherwise. 

Tears choke Geralt’s throat, and Jaskier is in front of him in an instant. “Are you sick, Geralt? You look pale as a sheet! Can witchers get sick? I’ve never seen you sick before, I’m sure Yennefer can heal whatever you have.” 

“I’m pretty sure whatever he has is called shock, bard,” Yennefer sighs. “Just… Call out my name or something when you two have figured your shit out. I definitely need to see what magic sustains you,” she pokes at Jaskier’s chest. “But right now we have a catatonic witcher and he won’t get better for a while, so I’m going to go have a walk.”

With that, she turns away, ignoring Jaskier’s sputter of protest. Geralt lets her go, and he grabs Jaskier’s face in his hands, touching the skin and looking at the blue, blue eyes until he forgets what other colours look like. 

“Geralt? You’re starting to worry me over there, old friend.” 

“You’re alive,” Geralt breathes out, and he puts his fingers against Jaskier’s throat, ignores the squeak of the man. He feels the telltale rise and fall of a beating heart, and relief floods him. He isn’t hallucinating, this isn’t some fake Jaskier. This is the real Jaskier, the real, alive, Jaskier. 

“Um, yes, I mean, I know it’s a bit strange but I think we already established that and— Ah, Geralt what!” 

Geralt is hugging him tightly, having drawn him against his chest, almost squeezing him. The tears on his cheek are happy this time, and he lets himself believe that things will be alright from now on. He has his Jaskier back, and no one will take him away again. Geralt won’t let it happen. 

“Ciri and Yennefer aren’t the loves of my life,” Geralt says again. 

He doesn’t really know how to tell Jaskier that he is. Not when he himself has only realized the previous night, after having fucked Yennefer. He doesn’t want to wait either though, but the words are stuck in his throat, halfway out and halfway in. 

“So you and Yennefer have said,” Jaskier says in an unsure tone, slowly pushing Geralt away, “but well, that doesn’t really matter now. Are you feeling alright?” 

“Better than I have in decades,” the witcher murmurs hoarsely, and then he looks at the plump lips, the softness they guarantee… and can’t say it. So he settles on an approximate, something that Jaskier requested, albeit somewhat jokingly, minutes ago. “I’m sorry. For what I said. Before you… Before you left. For the first time. I’m really fucking sorry, I shouldn’t have said all those things about you, I—“ 

“Shhh,” Jaskier soothes him and smiles gently. “It’s alright. I’m alright, and so are you. I forgive you, Geralt of Rivia.” 

Geralt could cry in relief, but all the tears in his body have dried out, so he simply settles on hugging Jaskier again, feeling the rumble of laughter running through the other man. 

“You’ve certainly gotten handsier since the last time we saw each other!” 

Geralt smiles weakly, and he lets Jaskier drags him away. His crown of wildflowers is shining in the early light of the morning, and Geralt knows that Jaskier wasn’t just a pawn to punish him. He was also sent back to give Geralt a second chance at loving, at living. Geralt doesn’t intend on fucking that up again. 

They go back to Yennefer’s, and Jaskier prattles on, talking about this or that, things that he saw of the Continent. He asks after Ciri as if he knows her, gives Yennefer some tips about some potion she is making. He looks at Geralt with the same fondness as always, and it’s more difficult for Geralt to give it back so openly, but he tries his best. 

Days pass, and Geralt can’t get the words out of his throat. Yennefer is getting impatient with him, and Ciri will soon be back. She has grown to have an even sharper tongue than Yennefer, so he fears she will notice immediately what he is hiding and confront him about that. 

His fears turn out to be right. When she comes back, he still hasn’t told Jaskier, and he is making a simple stew for the evening meal when his adoptive daughter corners him. Clearly, she has gotten all the story out of Yennefer, and her clever eyes settle on him. 

“So, are you just going to start traveling with him like nothing has changed between the two of you, or are you going to stop pretending your love for him didn’t bring him back from the dead?” 

“That’s not what happened,” he tells her as he keeps cutting meat. “The gods—“ 

“Oh bullshit,” she rolls her eyes. “Come on Geralt. You know the truth, and Jaskier does as well. He is just giving you space, but at this point he’ll end up on the other side of the Continent before you manage to struggle two words to tell him you’re hopelessly in love with him.” 

He doesn’t answer to that, simply glares at her, and she looks at him with an unimpressed look. Damn it. 

“Fine.” He growls out. “I’ll… tell him.” 

“Soon?” 

“Yes.” 

“Tonight?” She grins and he throws a potato at her head. 

“Don’t push your luck, kid.” 

She laughs and tosses him back the potato. “You better do it tonight though, I’ve heard him talk with Yen about going to the next town over to see what he missed from our world.” 

Panic rises in Geralt as he hears that, and he turns his eyes to her. She laughs again. 

“Get a grip, dad!” She grins over her shoulder, and he can’t even be mad at her. 

Jaskier is playing the lute, whistling a soft tune as he takes in the warm sun of the summer, his eyes closed. Geralt looks at him for a few seconds before he finally marches on. 

“Jaskier.” 

“Geralt!” Jaskier sounds delighted, always does, and his smile is wide. “What a pleasure. Decided to enjoy the finer things in life?” 

“Yennefer and Ciri aren’t the loves of my life,” Geralt says as he sits close to Jaskier. 

“Alright, I thought we had covered that when I arrived…” 

“You are.” 

There is silence this time. Geralt doesn’t let himself look away from Jaskier, doesn’t let himself fall prey to the fear in his heart. He has been healing since he found Jaskier again, since he came back to him. This is putting his heart at risk of being broken again, and he doesn’t want to know if Jaskier will just reject him, or if the bard will kindly try to turn the conversation to something else. 

“Of course I am,” Jaskier says, infinitely tender. “I thought you would never figure it out for yourself.” 

“What?”

“Come on. You know why I was really sent back. They wanted us to have a real chance at happiness. They tried with all those other pieces of me before but… You let them slip away from you, Geralt. They weren’t me, and you couldn’t handle it. In the end, they chose to send me back. You know that, don’t you?” 

“I… No… I thought you were my punishment…?” 

Jaskier laughs, pearly and beautiful, exposing his throat to the sun. “I would never be a punishment! I’m your reward, my dear witcher, and it’s highly time you let yourself enjoy it.” 

He caresses Geralt’s cheek tenderly, and Geralt leans into the touch, leans into the overwhelming experience that is Jaskier. He closes his eyes for a few seconds before looking back at Jaskier, letting his eyes fall to the man’s lips. 

“Please,” he starts to ask, but Jaskier’s lips are on him before he can formulate a proper question. 

He tastes like happiness and wildflowers, and Geralt wraps his arms around him, holds him close to himself. He is never letting go of Jaskier ever again.

**Author's Note:**

> I told y'all, this has a HAPPY ending!! I'm a sucker for romance, so my stories always have a happy ending. I think at least they do... Tell me what you thought! Tell me if you want more! Leave a comment, fuel my writing, come talk to me on tumblr (@saltytransidiot)! I'm exhausted so now I'll sleep, thank you for reading, have a nice day/night.


End file.
